


mental illness isn't like breaking your arm, for some fucking reason

by s0dafucker (orphan_account)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Mental Health Issues, its not graphic, self harm mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-14
Updated: 2018-05-14
Packaged: 2019-05-06 22:59:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14658003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/s0dafucker
Summary: some personal shit





	mental illness isn't like breaking your arm, for some fucking reason

i find myself wishing for blood in the sink, a voice with a rasp like saltwater down your throat, eyes bruised underneath and red behind glasses cloudy, i find myself wishing for proof that i am hurting, for scars and blood and something i can hand you with my shaking hands and say  _ look, i’m hurt, i promise it’s real  _ i wish for sleepless nights and coughed up blood and stained sleeves and something besides my own voice insisting that i’m fine. 

i want you to call me on my bluff because you’ve seen the scars and the purple blue black rings under my eyes and scrapes on my hands and i can’t ask for a fucking medal for existing, but god, i wish. i want a ticker tape parade and signatures on a cast and a pat on the back, a t shirt that says  _ i survived  _ i want someone to understand that it should’ve left marks. 

i want to cocoon myself away in my room in the dark, mascara running down my cheeks and thin wrists dripping red, a lifetime movie caricature of Depression, until someone arrives; a lover or a friend to hold me and whisper that i am so strong, so strong for surviving, to kiss my scars and tell the world that i am something beautiful.

it’s so much easier to fall in love with the tragic survivor than the kid forcing themself out of bed in the morning, to understand pain you can see, tear tracks and scars make  _ sense,  _ they mean hurt the way shaky hands and no sleep and a grin that feels like baring your teeth don’t.

i write poems in second person so i don’t have to own the pain, don’t have to carry it with me, and i leave the clothes i cry in on my bedroom floor and i get up every day and i make my own cast out of duct tape and carefully constructed playlists, sign it  _ fuck you  _ from me and me only, and i exist without breathe me by sia and close ups on my bones and pretty tears. i exist at 3am when my lungs work again and i’m alone but i don’t care, i exist when the sun comes up and i teach myself to love the night when i can’t sleep through it, and i am learning to exist without congratulations.

**Author's Note:**

> i feel kinda weird abt publishing this here bc its not fanfic but i really like it


End file.
